


collide

by professortennant



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: 5 Times, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Heavily influenced by my own headcanons, charity - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24630550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: Once upon a time, she'd told him they were from different worlds and that it would never work out. But now Gil Arroyo is back in her life and proving just how much their worlds aren't so separate after all...
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Jessica Whitly
Comments: 11
Kudos: 30





	1. i. check, fold, raise

**_i._ **

The venue hall is decked out in glitzy lights and rented pinball and slot machines. Music floats among the crowd—big, explosive brass sounds and a steady beat of a snare drum. The upper echelons of New York’s society laugh and sip at dirty martinis and crystal tumblers full of expensive whiskey as they crowd around the scattered poker tables, hired blackjack and poker dealers tossing them cards and indulgently explaining the rules.

Gil moves between the tables, eyes open and peeled for their suspect. It’d been happy coincidence that they were looking for a gambling ring bubbling up in New York’s underground crime syndicate at the same time Jessica happened to be throwing the charity event of the season—her first hosted event in nearly twenty years in which she didn’t hide in the shadows behind anonymous donations and suggestions. 

He hated undercover work, had never felt comfortable in someone else’s skin never mind the penguin suit he was currently stuffed into. It had been his experience as a young poker player many years ago that had earned him the opportunity to infiltrate Jessica’s party and make a big splashy name for himself. He just needed to find the high-roller table and make his move. 

A deep, throaty laugh caught his ear—the way it always did when she was near—and he fought a grin as he made his way to the back of the venue where Jessica was playing the role of hostess. The sight of her paused him mid-step and he hung back a moment to simply observe her in her preferred habitat. 

Draped in shiny, sparkling fabric, diamonds dripping from her ears and neck, and her hair twisted up elegantly to show off her bare shoulders and neck, Jessica Whitly looked like a modern day princess. Warmth flooded his chest, happy and so damn proud of her. It had taken a lot to put herself and her name on the line once more. The upper society circles of New York were often more backstabbing and treacherous than many of the crime rings he’d broken up. 

He took his place beside her, hand low on her back and a soft press of his lips to her cheek. “Jessica,” he murmured in greeting. He was meant to be her guest tonight, her name and wealth getting the NYPD through the door. If he decided that _guest_ meant potential suitor, at least for tonight, that was between him and his own conscience. 

She turned to him, surprised, cheeks flushing pink. “Gil!” 

He nodded at the small crowd of people gathered around Jessica, trying to look apologetic. “I hope you don’t mind if I steal her for a moment?”

“No, not at all,” one of the older women said, eyes flicking between them speculatively, something like a scheming grin curling at the corners of her lined mouth. “It’s so nice to see Jessica _socializing_ with men again.”

The barb hit its mark and he could feel Jess tense beside him, ready to strike back the way only she could. But there wasn’t time for a tête-à-tête now. He guided Jessica away with an arm around her waist. 

“Misty Burke can go suck a lemon, truly. _Socializing_. I’ll show her—“

“Maybe we can convince Ms. Burke to play a few hands of poker later and we’ll repay the favor later by stealing every penny she puts in the pot.”

Jessica looked taken aback at his cunning for a brief moment before she let out a sound resembling a low, pleased purr that gave him the urge to loosen the bow tie at his neck. “Oh, _Gil._ You are a devious one.” She beamed at him, slipping her arm into the crook of his elbow. “You can stay with me tonight.”

He bit back that that was exactly the plan, covering her hand with his instead and letting her lead him to the back corner where a selection of exceptionally dressed men and women were absentmindedly stacking and shuffling piles of poker chips, rolling single chips across their knuckles in what was meant to be a show of intimidation. 

It made Gil grin. It had been a long time since he’d been around a poker table with moderately skilled players with larger sums of money than they knew what to do with. Although whatever winnings he’d earn tonight—and he planned to win quite a bit—would be split between the NYPD and Jessica’s choice of charity tonight, he’d take the ego win to know that he still could hold his own.

Beside him, Jessica was giving him a quick rundown on the competition in a manner that would impress any police chief. “The man with the abominable walrus mustache leans back and orders a drink every time he has a pair. The woman with the _tacky_ sapphires has more money than sense, so I’d bank on a bluff or high-card most of the time. And the—“

“You didn’t tell me you could play poker,” he accused. She spoke quickly and confidently, throwing out terms and tells like this wasn’t her first time around a poker table. 

She shot him a devious look, eyebrows raised. “Oh _dear one_ , how do you think I came into possession of half my Coach bags? Boarding school taught me so much more than etiquette and how to have a stellar posture.”

Gil shook his head at her, wondering if he would ever stop being surprised by the woman on his arm.

“Does this mean you’ll be sitting beside me for a few hands?”

“I _run_ this game, Gil. I’ll be across from you and taking every penny the NYPD lined your pockets with tonight.”

Her eyes flicked to his cheek, like she was considering returning his earlier gesture and wanted to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. Instead, she squeezed his arm and slipped away from him, hips sauntering and a teasing, “Good luck,” hanging in the air between them.

It was impossible to not look after her, to let his eyes drift over the swell of her hips and the shapely line of her legs in a pair of sky-high heels. He considered it a win every time Jess looked at him, reached for him, showed him that she wanted to push past whatever it was that held her back from touching him. 

(It was hard for him to swallow that down and not remember a time she leaned on him so easily, her head on his shoulder after a long day at court with Martin or the way she let him draw her body against his for an embrace to bolster her mood when Malcolm and Ainsley came home brokenhearted and alone. 

That was then— _before._ They were both different now, but he was confident with time she would remember how to trust him with herself again.)

He took his seat at the round table, made his hellos and introductions, ordered an Old Fashioned, and leaned back in his chair, ready to receive the first round of cards. 

Gil kept his attention split between his own hand and the reactions and actions of the other members at the table. No one seemed too terribly out of place based solely on appearance and mannerisms. 

But this wasn’t his world. It was Jessica’s. 

Which is why he felt an immense rush of pride when she leaned forward, elbow planted firmly on the green felt of the table, and began making light conversation with the two people to her left and right—clearly outsiders to her. 

Gil watched with amazement as she deftly navigated hand after hand of poker, raising and calling and checking and folding as appropriate, while also asking seemingly innocuous questions—questions not for her own benefit but for _his_ and his investigation’s. 

“I do so apologize, dear, but I don’t think we’ve met. Who are you here with?”

She danced the line of gracious, curious host and probing investigator and Gil wanted to record the show she was putting on for Vice to show them how it was done. Jess was a natural and he was content to let her take the lead, making note of the way she flicked her eyes to his every once in a while to indicate that the answer given was unsatisfactory or questionable.

The woman to her left—Patricia—seemed to be the most annoyed and discomfited by Jessica’s probing and Gil watched as she took stock of the room before folding her hand, making her excuses and scooping the remaining chips in her stack into her handbag to make a hasty exit, leaving behind only Gil and Jessica at the high-roller’s table. 

Gil lifted the hidden microphone in his shirtsleeve up to his mouth and gave the order for JT, Dani, and Bright to intercept the woman and bring her in for questioning.His team rattled off their acknowledgment in his ear and that was that—undercover sting over.

Except a small crowd of curious socialites had gathered around the table to watch the final showdown between Jessica Whitly and her mysterious man. Jessica gave him a leonine smile—all sharpness and predatory intent. 

“What do you say, Gil? Care to go head-to-head?”

A rush of competitive spirit filled him, eager to prove that he still had what it took to hang at tables like this. The way Jessica’s eyes sparkled with excitement and promise helped him along to his final decision, even as he noted that their chip stacks were relatively even matched. 

She wanted to play.

And so did he.

He turned his attention to the dealer who was shuffling the cards uncertainly. “You heard the lady,” he told him. “Deal.”

The trouble with playing Texas Hold ‘Em now with Jessica Whitly compared to playing poker with a bunch of no-name gambling addicts then is that Jessica Whitly, despite a lengthy absence from his life, _knows_ him. 

He isn’t sure what it is he’s doing that gives him away, but she seems to be three steps ahead of him, raising and calling and manipulating each hand until her stack is almost double the size of his. 

For her part, Jessica seems to be basking in the attention. The crowd around their table seems to have doubled and with each win, each scoop of the winnings over to her own stack, the crowd murmurs and applauds her efforts, clearly surprised by the return of Jessica Whitly in such a manner to the socialite scene. 

Gil knows if he wants to win he needs to go all in soon, make a dent in her stack and try and swing momentum his way. He shoves almost all of his stack into the pot with a pair of King-Queen that had earned him a possible open-ended straight draw on the flop. He’s fairly confident he could beat her if they take the hand to the River. 

And then—to his surprise—Jessica does something that he’s seen her only do a few times all night right before he _knows_ she bluffed. She freezes for a moment after he makes his move and then neatly squares her cards in front of her, thinking with her bottom lip between her teeth.

_Gotcha._

All he needs is for her to call and he’ll shove the rest of his stack and it’ll be game over. He’s got her. 

Her eyes flick to the crowd of her peers, the people she’s been desperately trying to claw her way back to with all the grace, poise, and fight she could muster. 

As satisfying as it would be to win and show her just what he’s made of, it suddenly all seems so empty in light of the longing, open expression on Jessica’s face. She _wants_ this more than he ever could.

He mutes the sound of Bright in his ear. “Gil, I’ve been watching my mother all night. She’s got this tell and it’s—“

He doesn’t need a profiler to tell him how to read Jessica Whitly. And he doesn’t need Malcolm to help him right now. This isn’t about winning—not any more.

Predictably, she lifts her chin up stubbornly and pushes her stack into the middle. “All in.”

The noise of the crowd’s reaction seems to bolster her, makes her sit taller and pull her shoulders back. And he desperately wants this win for her. 

It’s the easiest fold of his life. 

(Jessica’s beaming smile, her little yip of excitement, the way she allows the crowd to swarm her with congratulations and compliments and support is worth every penny lost.)

Pushing himself away from the poker table, he makes his way back to his team outside. They have their suspect in custody and it’s time to stop playing pretend and get back to work. 

“Gil! Gil, wait!”

He closes his eyes, stopping in his tracks. It would have been better—easier—if she had just let him go. But her fingers wrap around his wrist and pull him around to face her, face lined with confusion and brows furrowed. 

“I know you had me beat,” she challenges. 

“You didn’t,” he insists, hoping she’ll buy the lie. But she is a woman who has long stopped buying lies because they were easier than facing a hard truth. She’s learned that the hard way. 

“I _know_ you did. I had Ace-high back there. You had a straight or a pair or _something.”_

He looks at her helplessly, palms up. “What do you want me to say, Jess? Yes, okay, I had you beat.”

“Then why?”

Gil looks away, swallowing hard. If she wanted honesty, if she wanted to read him and probe past the mask, he would give her that. “I know how important tonight was to you, Jessica. And you were--" He searched for the right word, finally settling on, " _Radiant_. You showed everyone what I see—what I’ve _always_ seen—a woman with fight and fire and guts. You just...you deserved to win it all tonight. I wanted that for you."

“Gil...” Her eyes sparkle with unshed tears and he can feel her wanting to reach out to him, to reinforce the connection between them. 

But she's not ready for that step, not yet. That's why he's there for her, to show her that she can touch him without fear of rejection or that it will be used against her.

He takes her hand in his and strokes his thumbs over the back of her hand, his other hand reaching for her face and rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip where her teeth are sunk into the soft flesh. 

“But just so you know for next time,” he murmurs, gaze flicking between her eyes and her mouth, “When you’re thinking of making a risky move—a bluff or a bigger than normal bet—you bite your lip,” he tells her, voice low and husky. 

Against his the pad of his thumb he can feel her shaky breath of exhalation. The moment hangs between them heavy and full of promise and it would be so easy to crack open he window to the past and lean in and press a soft kiss to worried bottom lip, soothing it with his tongue and lips and tender touch.

But his radio crackles to life in his ear and an exasperated Bright chatters in his ear that they’re ready to go and he has a theory about the gambling ring they’re after and Gil is reminded that this isn’t the time or place for _this._

He pulls his hand away from her mouth, fingers detouring ever so briefly to stroke at the soft curve of her cheek, before stepping back. 

“Just something to think about before our rematch.”

“R-rematch?”

He likes the way she sounds out of breath and uncertain, like he’s rocked her off her feet with a simple touch and a few well-placed words. 

“Oh yeah,” he affirms with a grin. “Next time, no holding back.”

Her eyes go wide at that and before she can respond, he turns on his heel and heads back to his team.

“See ya at the next event, Jess.”


	2. ii. car trouble

Malcolm’s normally austere loft is alive with music and the soft chatter of a party. Gil is pretty sure, based on the way Malcolm keeps looking around wide-eyed and uncertain, that he’s never had so many people in one room _celebrating_ him before. 

(Gil remembers the kid sitting around his and Jackie’s dining table with a giant piece of cake all to himself, completely oblivious to the empty chairs around him, evidence of the birthday invitations ignored by his classmates. He had no idea what his birthdays were like at Jessica’s—their relationship had deteriorated too far by that point. But he imagines it was much of the same but in a bigger and emptier house.)

“He looks happy,” a soft, wistful voice says from his left. He looks at Jessica clutching the half-empty wine glass to her chest and staring at her son with a hopeful, happy expression. She smiled sadly at him. “I don’t know the last time he had a birthday like this,” she confesses, eyes darkening with self-recrimination.

It’s second nature now, just like it was all those years ago, for him to reach for her. He squeezes her shoulder comfortingly, hand drifting up to the back of her neck as a heavy, grounding weight. “You did the best you could for him, Jess,” he reassures her. “Malcolm—hell, all of you—were dealt a shitty hand. You gave him the best and happiest life possible. Don’t doubt that.”

Like she always does, she frowns at him a moment as if confused by the praise and assurance, uncertain about why he’s touching her, before finally relaxing against him, stepping closer and resting her head on his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, turning her face ever so slightly into his neck. He hugs her closer and lets his eyes slip close. For a moment, he feels like they are here together—a single unit, am other and father. The night has been a long one for both of them, hovering on the edges of Malcolm and his friends as they let the drinks flow freely, conversation fleeting less awkwardly than anticipated. 

It helped that Jessica had quite the aviary cage installed beneath Malcolm’s stairs for Sunshine, insisting the bird deserved better accommodations. The new bird digs provided a focal point for conversation and gave Malcolm the opportunity to spout on about the benefits of an emotional support canary which had bled naturally into a conversation about pets in general and from there—well, Gil was proud of the way Malcolm was deftly navigating the free-flowing conversation surrounding him.

Jessica pulled away, giving him a smirk and poking a finger into his chest. “But don’t think that means I’ve forgiven you for gifting my son a candy shop’s worth of hard candies and lollipops. _Really,_ Gil,” she admonished. “He’s a grown man.”

Gil eyed the large glass jar on Malcolm’s counter with pride. It was, indeed, stuffed to the brim with hard candies in clear wrappings and larger than life multi-colored suckers. He’d noticed Malcolm carrying them in his pocket again—a sign he was struggling to remain in control and grounded and needed comfort. Besides, it was a way he felt connected to the young man. A candy in his pocket for children had been something he’d done since his first days as a beat cop and it had been the only thing he could think to give to the young boy who stood before him in the basement of that house, trembling and scared and uncertain of his own future.

If that’s what Malcolm needed, he’d give it to him.

“Not sure how a jar full of candies for him is any different than the freezer full of Rocky Road you have,” he teased. 

She spluttered at him. “That is _completely_ different. And,” she narrowed her eyes at him. “How do you know what’s in my freezer right now?”

“I don’t need to be a profiler like Malcolm to know you. Besides, I remember how many times you asked me to bring it over to the house claiming it was for Ainsley.”

“How do you know it wasn’t?”

“Because she hates marshmallows.”

“How do you—You know what? Never mind. _Of course_ you know my daughter dislikes marshmallows.”

He laughed and took her wine glass from her, draining the last of its contents. It was long past the time the older guest of this party retired for the evening to leave the rest of his team to bond together. It was important not only for the success of Major Crimes but for Malcolm’s success in doing on and building solid, positive friendships.

He didn’t need a therapist’s license for that one.

“C’mon,” he said to Jess, ignoring her wide eyes still looking at him in shock for his audacity in finishing her wine for her. “Let’s leave these guys to it, huh?”

She looked like she wanted to protest and linger a little longer but a look from Gil and a glance at the clock on the wall made her stop and sigh. “I hate when you’re right,” she tossed over her shoulder before gathering her bag and coat and graciously interrupting Malcolm and his friends to say her goodbyes.

Gil followed dutifully behind her and drew the young man into a hug. “Happy birthday, kid.”

Malcolm beamed at him, cheeks pink. “Thanks, Gil. Are you and my mother leaving? Together?” His eyebrows rose suggestively, his profiler brain working overtime as he took in the minute details available in front of him.

“I’m escorting your mother to her car before calling a cab and going to my own home. _Alone._ ”

The younger man smiled at him patronizingly. “I’m a year older and wiser today, Gil. You don’t have to lie to me about you and my—“

“Watch it, kid.” He glared playfully at Bright before squeezing the back of his neck in a final goodbye. “See ya Monday. Try and relax, okay?”

He caught a thoughtful look on Jessica’s face as they slipped out of the apartment loft, Gil’s hand low on the small of her back to guide her down the stairs, ready to steady her if necessary. Jessica could more than hold her own after a few drinks, but he couldn’t help worrying. 

“What?”

She gave him a small smile of thanks as he opened the building door for her, both stepping out into the cool New York air. 

She wrung her hands in front of her, a sign of nerves. “I forget how good you are with him sometimes. How good you _were_ with him, even then.” He sucked in a breath, shocked she was willingly bring up the past. 

“If I remember correctly,” he said gently. “Part of the reason we drifted apart back then was because you thought I was too close.”

Even now, it hurt to think of the way she had snarled at him that he wasn’t Malcolm’s father, to think of the way she had pulled away from him when he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her desperately and told her that he wanted to be part of their lives, to be there for her and Malcolm and Ainsley. 

But she’d shut that window of opportunity and bolted it closed without an explanation. 

Now, though, she was looking at him imploringly, licking at her lips nervously, and stepping forward, a shaky hand reaching for him. “I—“

“Ms. Whitly!”

Jessica closed her eyes at the interruption and inhaled sharply, throwing Gil an apologetic look first, turning to see Adolpho jogging towards them, cell phone in hand. “Yes, Adolpho? What is it?”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am, but something’s wrong with the car.”

“What!”

“I tried calling the insurance number for a tow, but they won’t be here for a few hours.”

“ _Hours?_ Honestly, _what_ is the point of spending the money that we do with them just to be kept waiting. What if it was a true emergency? Absolutely unacceptable, Adol—“

Gil put a hand on her arm, stymieing the tirade that he just knew she was building up to. “What’s wrong with the car?” He asked, slipping comfortably into crisis management mode.

“I’m not sure, sir. It sounds like maybe the alternator.”

“Show me.”

“Gil, you don’t have to—Truly, I can wait upstairs with Malcolm until the truck arrives.”

He shook his head at her, already following Adolpho around the corner where the gleaming black SUV was parked. “It’s not a problem, Jess. My dad used to to be a mechanic in the military, so I know my way around an engine.”

“I gathered as much given that monstrosity you drive.”

If he had been anyone else, if he hadn’t known her better, he would think a comment like that was back-handed. But he _did_ know her and instead of being offended or stung, it made him laugh. This was Jessica Whitly _teasing._

“If you would get over your biases against muscle cars, I’d take you out for a spin and you could see the benefits of a car like mine.”

The affectionate and exasperated roll of her eyes bolstered him and he turned to Adolpho, still smiling. “Okay, pop the hood. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

“Oh, Gil, don’t it’s so dirty.”

“You could stop protesting and get over here and hold your phone over the engine so I can see,” he said dryly, shrugging out of his jacket and laying it over the trunk of a nearby car. 

He could her Jess fumbling with her phone, mumbling about damn buttons and gadgets and features and—“Got it!” A light shone from her phone as she leaned over the engine to illuminate the machinery for him. 

Gil stared into the pristinely cleaned engine and gave a nod of approval in Adolpho’s direction. “Alright, let’s see if we can’t get this baby up and running long enough to get you two home. Jess, come here and just—“ He wrapped his hand around her wrist and guided her arm where he needed it, ignoring the way she tensed beneath his touch. 

“Gil, you _really_ don’t have to— _What_ are you doing?” She asked in alarm as he nodded to himself and began to pull at his sweater and yank it off his head, the thick fabric joining his jacket.

It left him in a pair of belted slacks and a white tank top-style undershirt, hair mussed from removing his sweater. He shrugged. “I never could figure out how to get grease stains out and that’s one of my favorite sweaters.”

He leaned back over the engine, poking and prodding at various knobs and belts and buttons that Jess couldn’t even begin to name. The light above him swayed unsteadily and he flicked his gaze to hers.

He thought he would find her uninterested in the proceedings of fixing and fiddling with a car engine, perhaps an exasperated or annoyed expression on her face as she shifted her weight on her expensive heels—an explanation for the swaying light source. 

To his surprise—and delight—however, he found her attention elsewhere as expected; he just hadn’t expected her attention to have diverted to _him._

Her eyes were clearly glued to his arms and shoulders, expression hungry and wanting. It made him go hot all over, warmth stirring low in his belly to have not just any woman but _Jessica_ stare at him that way. He flexed his arms, testing a theory, and almost groaned out loud at the darkened expression—of desire—that crossed her face.

“Jessica,” he teased, drawing her attention back to him. She must have known she’d been so blatantly caught because her cheeks flushed pink enough to be noticeable even in the dim lighting. “I think I found the problem.”

“Y-you did?”

“Adolpho was right,” he said, straightening up and letting his fingers brush along her arm a little longer than necessary to guide her hand over where the alternator and belt were in the engine. She shivered and he knew it had nothing to do with the breeze blowing by. “It’s your alternating belt. Damn near ripped in half.”

“So, what can do we about that?”

He tilted his head at her, taking in the way her hair gently curled over her shoulders, her wide, focused eyes, the way she had followed him without question and let him take care of this for her. 

He thought about their cut off conversation outside Malcolm’s building and the hints at the past and their future, the way they’d steadily been finding their way back to each other while navigating hurt and misunderstanding. 

There was only one answer to her question—both the spoken and unspoken one.

“We’re going to fix this, Jessica.”


	3. iii. par for the course

“No, Gil, not for the first time in my life, I have no idea where Malcolm is or what he’s up to. But he’ll come to you when he’s ready. You know he will.”

But Gil wasn’t listening to Jessica’s placations, though she was undoubtedly right. He just wished that kid of his would bring him in on some of his crazier hunches and plans before he got himself into a deeper hole than he could dig himself out of.

What drew his attention now, though, was Jessica—in her high heels and tight pencil skirt—doing her damnedest to not topple over or rip a seam as she bent down to adjust the empty, tipped over coffee mug in the middle of her hallway. In his concern for Malcolm, he had completely missed the golf club and the bucket of mini golf balls at the other end of the hall.

“Jess? Whatcha doing?”

She straightened, primly pushing her hair back behind her ear, and giving him an exasperated look. “What does it _look_ like I’m doing? I have this _ridiculous_ golfing fundraiser on Saturday. I have absolutely zero recollection of committing myself to such an _atrocious_ sport.” She sniffed, nose turning in the air. “If you can even call it a sport. I’m not convinced that treacherous woman Tabitha Royce didn’t put my name down in the hopes to embarrass me. Well, I’ll show them. You _don’t_ mess with Jessica Whitly.”

The combination of disdain for her perceived enemy and the determination to prove them all wrong in her voice made Gil smile as he followed her down the long stretch of hallway, stopping to lean against the door and watch bemusedly as Jess fumbled with the golf club, grip uncertain.

Jess was muttering to herself and he wasn’t sure if it was a pep talk or if she was still ranting against the injustices and backstabbing nature of bored housewives. What he _did_ know is that she wasn’t going to successfully hit a ball holding the club like that any time soon.

“Jess, can I—“

But it was too late. She was already wildly swinging at the golf ball, missing it by a mile, and causing her to do a half-turn on her heels. She growled, running a hand through her hair in frustration. “This is _ridiculous._ I’ll just make my excuses, write a check, and be done with the damn thing.”

He felt his expression soften, mouth curling upwards in sympathy. She looked like Malcolm when he was hitting a wall on the case. He didn’t think handing her a lollipop would soothe her the same way it did Malcolm.

But he knew she, like Malcolm, craved validation and support even if neither one would admit as much. It just so happened Gil was excellent at providing both. 

“That’s not like the Jessica Whitly I know,” he teases, shrugging out of his jacket and pushing his sleeves up.

She crossed her arms over her chest, eyebrow perfectly arched. “And what _is_ like the Jessica you know?”

“The Jessica I know is going to let her good friend Gil show her a few pointers and then she’s going to practice a little every day until Saturday and then wipe the floor—or the grass—with those stuck-up Desperate Housewives.” 

She sighed, sagging a little as the fight went out of her, eyes turning to his and pleading. “Would you mind? I don’t have to be Tiger Woods or anything, just get me through it.”

He took the club from her, comfortable and confident. “Watch and learn,” he instructed, voice slipping into his Lieutenant tone, demanding attention and instruction. “Your dominant hand wraps around the top-middle. Your other hand will come around just underneath your grip. Let your fingers overlap a little. Don’t strangle it, keep it loose and easy.” 

He could feel her gaze on his hands and couldn’t help but be hyperaware of the sensation of having her attention on him, on his hands positioned in front of his—

He cleared his throat, focusing. He thought he heard a muffled laugh from Jess but he couldn’t bring himself to look up at her. “Just look at your target, not the ball. Trust your club to hit the ball and rock and swing your hips and—“

He pulled back, eyes ahead on the tipped over mug, and pushed his weight forward, swinging the club with just enough force to get it down the hall.

_Clink!_

It was impossible to not feel smug as he handed the club back to her, the golf ball firmly in the mug. She took the club from him, fingers brushing over his, with an appreciative look.

“Gil, I had no idea you were such an expert. You get much time to golf between cases?”

He shrugged, trying but failing miserably to keep the pride out of his voice. “I’ve been known every once in a while to bump shoulders with some of our judges and county commissioners at the country clubs to get warrants and policies moving.” It wasn’t his favorite part of hte job, but it was a necessary one. He rolled his eyes at her obvious interest—typical Jessica—and scooped up one of the golf balls from the bucket and placed it on the indented carpet. “Okay, enough about me, let’s see how well you paid attention, rookie.” 

She gave him a mock salute. “Oh sir, yes sir.”

Before he could swallow down the rush of heat at her words and the instant images conjured of her saying those words under entirely different circumstances, she is already turning her back to him, manicured hands wrapping around the shaft of the club, shifting her feet.

But even from here, he could see she was off-kilter and holding the club too tightly, making the club raise off the ground at the wrong angle. If she were to swing now, she’d scuff the top of the ball and send it top-spinning only a few feet.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he told her, stopping her mid-swing.

She huffed, exasperated, club lowering back to the ground. “What?”

“Take your heels off.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Are you going to play the course in heels on Saturday?”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to wear those _ghastly_ golf shoes.” She gave him a prim look. “Please, Gil, I thought you knew me better than that. A woman can get a multitude of things done in heels that men could only dream of.”

This he did not doubt, especially coming from Jessica Whitly. He’d seen her weather much, much worse than heels stuck in grass on a golf course. He tilted his head, conceding her point. 

“Can we at least practice and get the basics down without the extra obstacle?,” he offered as a compromise. 

Humoring him, she slipped out of her heels, kicking them to the side, wiggling her bare toes on the carpet. “ _There._ Now can I swing?”

He grinned at her, shaking his head. “Not quite. Can I—“ He made a gesture, half-reaching for her. 

“Um, yes, of course. I defer to your expertise.” Her voice was breathy and light, like she’d forgotten how to banter, how to flirt.

Stepping up behind her, he slid his arms around her, hands drifting over her arms and sliding down to wrap around her hands, guiding them to the proper place on the golf club. It should be innocent—he _meant_ it innocently. He just wanted to see her succeed and show everyone what he knew she had never lost and had always been: a force to be reckoned with. 

But without her heels, she stood almost four or five inches shorter and fit so perfectly in the crook of his arms. This was different than the handful of embraces they had shared, more intimate somehow.

She tensed as his hands closed over hers, a sharp intake of breath the only giveaway that his touch may have been affecting her as much as having her in his arms was affecting him. Because it _was_ affecting him. For all of her perceived hardness, her toughness, in his arms right now she was soft and warm and giving herself over to him completely. 

Because the breath she’d sucked in had quickly been exhaled like a dreamy sigh, her stance relaxing and hips pressing back against him more fully. 

He nuzzled slightly at her hair, hooking his chin over her shoulder to see their joined hands. His lips brushed over the curve of her ear as he murmured, “Okay, good, now just relax, stay loose. That’s it, Jess.”

Tiny goosebumps erupted over her skin and it took everything in him to not press his hips more firmly against hers, to bury his face in the crook of her neck, to turn her around in his arms and kiss her the way he’d wanted to since the moment she’d stormed back into his office and his life.

“Like this?,” she asked, voice low and husky in that way it sometimes got when she was overwhelmed with emotion. 

He hummed appreciatively as she rocked her hips, swaying them in time with her pre-swing motions. Her eyes were on their hands, too, and Gil almost threw the golf club across the hall when she licked her lips. 

“Eyes on the target, Jess,” he reminded her, hands tightening over hers. 

For a brief moment, her eyes flicked to his which made him wonder if she was considering a different target altogether. But then her gaze returned to the abandoned mug down the hallway and he felt her concentration shift, control retake her, as she shifted her weight forward and away from him, her hands tightening in preparation for the swing. 

They moved as one, Gil just barely guiding her movements and Jess doing the bulk of the work of the swing. 

The head of the club made direct contact with the ball and they both watched as if in slow motion as the little ball spun along the floor in a single, perfect streamlined trajectory. 

Gil barely had time to register the sound of the mug being knocked around as the ball slid smoothly into the opening before his arms were full of Jessica Whitly, her arms wrapping around his neck and her lips against his ear, breathless and excited. 

“I did it!”

It was girlish and a perfect moment of free emotion that he rarely saw from her and it made him feel special that she would share that vulnerability with him. He wrapped his arms around her waist and hauled her against him, her toes just leaving the ground as she leaned against him and into the embrace. 

When he set her down, she pulled back, hands sliding over his shoulders and arms, unwilling to break the connection between them fully. She bit her lip, looking down, trying to stifle the ear-to-ear grin.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely, squeezing his hands. “Truly, Gil, I—“ She swallowed, searching for the next words. Every year of police training and interrogation told him to bite his tongue and just wait for her to blurt out whatever it was she was struggling with. 

She licked her lips, eyes meeting his. “I haven’t said that enough to you lately. _Thank you._ For everything.”

He cupped her face gently. “You don’t have to thank me, Jessica. I’m here because I want to be.”

His breath caught in his chest as she stepped imperceptibly closer, hands sliding up his arms and her gaze dropping to his mouth. Nothing mattered—not their past, not the miscommunications and hurt, not the buckets of golf balls and forgotten golf club laying at their feet. They had been building to this moment for what felt like months, years, lifetimes. 

Tenderly, he brushed his fingertips over the curve of her cheek, stroking in soft circles. She sighed into the touch, tilting her head into his fingers and palm like a woman starving for affection. 

Her lips were parted ever so slightly and all it would take would be one movement from either of them to close the increasingly small gap between them, to make the connection and reforge the fires they had tried to ignore. 

“Gil,” she breathed out, mouth lifting up to his just as he was lowering his mouth to hers, both in sync, both on the same page. 

“Mother! Gil! Where are you? And _why_ are there mugs all over the house?”

They closed their eyes in exasperation as Malcolm’s voice carried through the house loudly. Jessica’s head dropped to his chest, a low groan of frustration emanating from her. He chuckled and rested his chin atop her head briefly in commiseration, squeezing her hip gently. 

“Next time,” he murmured playfully, enjoying the way her head snapped up and her eyes went wide with surprise and pleasure. 

She nodded and stepped back, smoothing her skirt and running a hand over her hair, before slipping back into her heels and calling out to her son to join them in the foyer, a promise that whatever _this_ was between them would be revisited sparkling unspoken in the expression on her face.

(He receives a text message from her on Saturday afternoon. It’s a picture of her looking impeccably dressed in a pair of plaid golf pants that no one should look that good in. But what draws his attention, what makes him feel so damn proud, is the trophy she’s holding proclaiming her the winner of her tournament.

_Tabitha Royce can eat her heart out. Thanks, Gil. Couldn’t have done with without you. And please, note the heels. Never underestimate me, dear._

He chuckles at the message, hearing her voice perfectly in his head. He does, indeed, note the heels she’s wearing and the way it makes her long, lean legs look miles long. With a few taps of his fingers, the picture and message are saved to his phone permanently and he fires back his response.

_I never doubted you for a minute—heels and all. I’m proud of you.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo they didn't smooch YET but they will! hang in there! except, y'know, brace your hearts for next chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> i was gonna post this as one fic but each section was getting longer and longer so just gonna split each of the moments into its own chapter. let me know if you like! also, boy, summaries are hard. also! just to clarify: the M rating is for the last chapter!


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